Rex Larsen | Grand Rapids Press file photoIn a 1980 photo, Hana Ali, then 2, pleads for attention as her famous father, Muhammed Ali, entertained visitors to his Deer Lake Park training camp. Could history possible have sent us two Cassius Clays? Clayton Hardiman tells the story of the other one.

As we close in on the final round of this political campaign, my mind turns with the seasons to a fighter named Cassius Clay.

No. Not that one.

Yes, Muhammad Ali, an electric personality and probably the most skilled heavyweight boxer of all time, was born Cassius Marcellus Clay Jr. But legally, spiritually and in all other ways, that hasn’t been his name for nearly half a century.

More to the point, though, I remember what Ali did to Ernie Terrell during their fight in 1966. I don’t dream about it -- anymore -- but it’s still the stuff of nightmares. Leading up to the fight, Terrell had taunted Ali by refusing to call him by his Muslim name.

Ali’s answer came in the ring. He delivered an array of hooks and jabs, leaving Terrell’s face a misshapen mask of cuts, lumps and bruises. All the while, Ali kept demanding, “What’s my name? What’s my name?”

Ali, now 70 and living with Parkinson’s disease, may be a few decades past his boxing prime. But you still won’t catch me pressing my luck.

No, the Cassius Marcellus Clay I’m talking about came along a little earlier. More than 130 years earlier.

The son of wealthy, slave-owning aristocrats, this Cassius Clay was a political maverick. A three-time state representative in antebellum Kentucky, he eventually helped form the Republican Party. He was one of the most principled abolitionists of his time.

Think about it. It was a time when terror ruled. Slave owners were panicked by the prospect of black resistance and slave revolts. So, they responded as frightened people do. They strengthened laws limiting slave behavior. They clamped down on efforts to teach slaves to read and write. Once again we are reminded that few people are as prone to panic as those with something to lose.

Which makes me wonder how this Southern child of privilege came to behave like someone with nothing to lose. It’s astonishing that he was elected to office in the first place. But the more his platform reflected his principles, the bigger a target he became. In the end, he found himself fighting for much more than his political career.

During an 1843 political debate, a hired assassin, backed by associates, shot Clay in the chest. Clay overcame the attackers, stabbed the hit man with a Bowie knife, and threw him over an embankment.

In 1845, a mob broke into the Lexington, Ky., office where Clay published his anti-slavery newspaper. They seized his printing equipment and then, obligingly and somewhat bewilderingly, shipped it out of state.

In 1849 came another attack. While Clay was making a speech, six brothers beat him, stabbed him and tried to put a bullet in him. Once again Clay managed to fight them off. He killed one of the brothers with his trusty Bowie knife.

Eventually all this took a toll. As he aged, Clay is said to have become weird and eccentric. Little wonder. It’s not paranoia if they really are out to get you.

In my years of journalism, I have conducted scores of campaign interviews and witnessed a couple dozen campaign debates. I have yet to see a Bowie knife slipped from a boot.

But that’s not to say today’s politics are devoid of risk. You don’t even have to look as far as the Tuscon, Ariz., shopping center where Congresswoman Gabby Giffords was a gunman’s target. In the very act of offering up your name and story for public approval and inspection, something speaks of risk.

Why do people do it? What’s the nagging itch? Some people credit the lust for power, but not everybody runs for king or emperor. Some run for township clerk or register of deeds.

When I ask myself these questions, I can’t help thinking of Cassius Clay -- the other one. History is rife with in-jokes like this one, where dates echo, stories resonate and identities get their wires crossed.

But maybe this child of history still has something to teach us about shouting into the maelstrom. Sometimes it’s as simple as an injustice and an isolated voice, demanding to be heard. It floats on the wind like a butterfly.

And the risk seems justified, even when retribution stings like a bee.